


He's the Carla to your Turk

by afra_schatz



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, Slice of Life, TV references, Teacher AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-10-18 11:44:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10616241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afra_schatz/pseuds/afra_schatz
Summary: This is a collection of four stories set in a teacher AU called ‘The Scrubs Verse’, featuring Sean Bean / Orlando Bloom. They rate from Gen to NC 17.  - There is a table of contents at the beginning.





	

**Fic titles:**

**_He stutters and stumbles over his own words and has said ‘I say, look here; rather’ like a flustered Bertie Wooster way more often than ‘God, I love you with all my heart’ which is what he really means to say.  
– Sean/Orlando –_ **

**He’s the Carla to your Turk  
Why is there silverware in the pancake drawer?   
Met him? He lit my arm on fire!   
Here I was in my own little world, dreaming about candy bracelets**

He’s the Carla to your Turk

Sometimes Orlando wonders how it happened that he became a supporting character in the show that is called his life. It’s not the nail-biting, self-doubting kind of wondering, more a professional interest.

Not that he should think in television terms at all if you’d listen to Sean. Orlando’s a fucking English teacher and should bloody well be thinking in Shakespearean metaphors and shit like that, Sean would say (no matter that the cuss words Sean keeps littering his sentences with aren’t that appropriate either). But hell, if Orlando wouldn’t set the alarm clock extra early on Saturday mornings just because a re-run of “Heroes” is on and wouldn’t bid Sean nighty night by purring ‘good night, John boy’ into his ear, he and Sean wouldn’t have anything to fight over. Which is exactly his point.

If Orlando’s life were ‘Scrubs’, he and Sean would be Turk and Carla. Not that his life really is anything like ‘Scrubs’ – once again, they’re both teachers and don’t even know a doctor apart from Sean’s dentist, also Orlando thinks that he could stand about two minutes in J.D.’s presence before he would try to shake some sense into him and prolly accidentally cause an SBS death. But it’s a thought worth processing anyhow because for one it means that Sean is really a sassy petite Latina at heart and secondly it’s fucking true. 

Orlando and Sean, they are the couple everyone’s inner calm relies on. They are the ones that you comfort yourself with when, after twenty minutes of screen time, the show ends with a cliffhanger, when everyone is in a bad place and feels lonely and sorry for themselves. 

Orlando is the one opening the door for you and pulling you into a hug just because he can. Sean’s the one that rails against whoever wronged you and threatens to kick their arse while (with meticulous patience) he prepares you a cuppa tea and Orlando hands him the sugar. And when everything’s rainbow and sunshine, they are the ones you invite to your get-togethers that provide the boring ‘old married couple’ routine. They mock you for your coltish freshly-fallen-in-love behavior while they finish each other’s sentences and bitch at one another for stealing food from each other’s plates.

Orlando has no idea how that happened. How his life got turned into this supporting cast, reliable couple routine. He’s been captain of the football team when he was in school, including popularity and everything related; had tried out the ‘fuck’em and leave’em’ approach to life when he went to uni. But that was all before he met Sean. 

Maybe it is because of the competition. No wonder that the new “Knight Rider” got cancelled, considering what shows it had to run against every – no, wait, “Knight Rider” was just completely bollocksed up crap, that was the reason for the cancellation. Anyway, the point is that everything seems more appealing, less adventurous or more dramatic depending on what you compare it to. And Orlando and Sean? Have fucking hard competition; every TV show producer would cry themselves to sleep faced with that. 

For one thing the school they both work in isn’t one of those highly privileged private places, it’s a comprehensive school in a working town that couldn’t be more average. Some of their kids have lived through rougher patches (poverty, crime and custodial sentences) than Orlando has ever watched on telly by the time they turned sixteen and are late for Sean’s Citizenship classes. And no matter what Sean says about how Shakespeare has words for everything – some of the family drama and bad break ups that Orlando had to talk children through would have left the Bard mute as well. And that’s just their kids (who mostly aren’t responsible for the fuck ups that are their lives and even if they are, they are kidsfor Godssake). 

Orlando doesn’t think they know any normal and stable grownups either. Just take Viggo and Karl for example who he loves dearly not just as colleagues and knows that Sean considers family. Which makes that half of the year always a bit tricky when those two decide to hate one another, to say the least. And it’s not just the table in Orlando’s classroom that got traumatized by one of their spectacular spontaneous reunions and the violent love making that always seems to follow in its wake. Viggo and Karl express their magnetism with bite marks and punches never pulled, with ridiculously romantic gestures and some sort of fierce twisted loyalty that only the two of them (if that) will ever understand. They don’t just deserve their own TV show, they should star in the adaptation of “War and Peace”.

So, you see why the comparison to ‘Scrubs’ kind of has its limitations and not because Sean’s a bit of an entertainment elitist. Orlando doesn’t know people like J.D. or Elliot and their life isn’t a sitcom. But still from time to time he wonders what it says about him and Sean that they are this kind of couple, the supporting cast (if there’s ever been a truer ring to that word); the plain and smooth tapestry that only ever acts as the background for the colorful (and sometimes completely horrid) eye catching paintings that is other people’s drama.

Not that it really bothers Orlando. He doesn’t envy others the spotlight. Yeah, sometimes he notices the undimmed optimism in one of his kids’ eyes, reckons them stupidly naïve one second and thinks himself jaded the next. And other times he sees couples in the park with this newly wed bounce to their stride, that birds-are-singing-Disney-songs-just-for-us feel to their kiss and he thinks about how Sean poked his nose while they watched the stock-market news the night before.

He supposes in the end Sean is right and this is one of the things you can’t really catch on film. There’s always a limited amount of lines in a script, just so many moods you can convey through background music. And yeah, damn, he is an English teacher and he should know his way around words or even just own a battered edition of fitting poems he can pull out and quote from. In fiction, brushing your partner off when he is feeling down never is about you yourself being damn knackered from a too long day. Awkward sex is never about one of you having had too much chili for supper. It always has to work as a metaphor for impending doom, couldn’t just be Orlando’s inability for multitasking on a Friday afternoon or Sean’s overly sensitive digestion.

The reason why they don’t make TV-shows about them isn’t that they are average or predictable or boring. It’s that they are steadfastly, unquestionably in love and will stay that way; no cliffhangers needed, no script changes possible. Just like they may think their kids idiots but still help them pick themselves up after. They love each other. 

Orlando may think Sean disgusting, annoying as fuck or stubborn at times but he knows him to be beautiful, caring and brilliantly intelligent in the very same moment. Sean may call him a slob and a dogmatist but his eyes go all soft when Orlando does the laundry even though it wasn’t his turn, he smiles and kisses him instead of making Orlando admit when he lost an argument.

Part of their predictable, steadfast, boring routine is that they stay up late some nights even though they can’t really afford it – because having someone that listens, understands and is as enthusiastic about something as you are shouldn’t ever run out of screen time. Part of what makes them them is hours and hours of early Sunday morning making out with easy laughs and butterfly kisses as act breakers (which just wouldn’t fit into a TV programme schedule, aside from the NC17 rating). 

And for all his liking of the telly in general and soaps in particular, Orlando really pities the characters for always having to come up with new original ways to profess their love. In real life, all it takes? Something like this: Sean picks up the car keys and when Orlando has finally managed to pull on his boots Sean gives him a buttery kiss on the cheek. Then he mumbles around the rest of his croissant, ‘Chop chop, my darling.’

 

****

Why is there silverware in the pancake drawer?

Orlando sits on the couch when Sean comes home from football. Some episode of “Scrubs” is on telly but Orlando’s eyes aren’t on the screen. He has drawn his feet up onto the upholstery and an essay is propped up against his thighs. Sean looks over his shoulder and can see Orlando’s neat red handwriting crawling down the left side of the page. Orlando doesn’t react when Sean strokes over his hair and kisses it. Still, when Sean reaches for the remote control, the other man mumbles around the end of the pen between his lips, “I’m watching that.”

Sean puts the remote back onto the upholstery and arches an eyebrow. Orlando doesn’t see it but he’s aware of it anyway, just like he knows the antics of the characters on the TV screen by heart. Sean sits down in his favourite armchair and his feet give the stack of essays only a slight nudge on the coffee table, turning it into the tower of Pisa that is leaning away from the odour of his smelly socks.

After a few minutes of idly scratching his sweaty-itchy skin and looking at the telly he remarks, “Why does the blond lass keep going back to him? Makes no sense to me.”

Orlando hums noncommittally in response. A little belatedly and still without looking up from his page, he adds, “I tell you something that makes no sense; this essay.”

He hunching over a little more to write something down and his hand loses some of its neatness like it always does when he gets agitated.

“I was thinking,” Sean says as he toes off his socks and pushes them under the coffee table, “we could have a proper Christmas dinner this year. Invite some people.”

This time Orlando glances up, the look in his eyes soft and focused. “Sure, love,” he says and nods and the smile on his face collides with the returning frown when he turns to his essay again. He mutters, “How can anyone not get that metaphor? Honestly.”

Sean closes his eyes, drifts off to the sound of meaningless banter on the telly and the occasional scratching sound of Orlando’s pen on cheap paper.

***

They have lunch in the staff room. Orlando because he’s trying to get the last bits of grading done at the same time, Sean because he is hiding from the cafeteria lady who hates him ever since he bitched about the quality of the lasagna a little too loudly earlier that week.

Orlando holds his pen in his right hand and his sandwich in his left and that’s the reason why he has mustard in his beard; his left isn’t that keen on the whole hand-eye-coordination thing, especially since he’s shaking his head almost continuously. 

“That bad?” Sean asks and when Orlando bangs his head onto the table in response he chuckles and says, “Don’t get your mustard all over it.”

Orlando raises his head again and props his chin up onto his palm. 

“Someone – ,” Sean says, “I can’t remember who so it can’t have been Shakespeare.”

“Or Joss Whedon,” Orlando interrupts and Sean tosses a grape at him before he continues.

“Someone once said that you know you’re truly besotted with someone when you love watching them eat and be disgusting about it.” 

“Good for me that you adore me then,” Orlando replies, merely stating a fact and adding not a second later. “And good thing that you always eats like you’re having tea with the Queen.”

Sean picks up another grape and sticks his pinkie out, turning popping grapes into his mouth into some kind of posh affair.

Reflexively Orlando looks at his watch. They have seven more minutes of peace and quiet, Sean thinks and can tell from the look on Orlando’s face how much he looks forward to proving to his marauding teenagers that Whitman really isn’t merely a ‘fucking homo’.

The staff room is relatively empty and Orlando stretches out his arm, reaches across the table so his fingertips can touch Sean’s. When Sean covers his hand with his own, the touch light and slightly sticky from juice, Orlando asks, “Do you still reckon it was a good idea to invite Vig and Karl for Christmas?”

There’s a slightly humorous note to his voice, no matter that Karl and Viggo have once again declared war around 10.35 this morning. Sean weighs his head from side to side and replies, “Only if we put the good china somewhere safe.”

“And the telly,” Orlando says. “You should make a list.”

“Of things to save?”

“Of people to invite. And maybe, yes, things to save as well. Exel is your friend.”

Sean chuckles and twists around so he can see the clock on the wall. 

“Aw, fuck,” he grunts, “five minutes.”

***

Sean’s mum calls in the middle of ‘Firefly’. He doesn’t leave the room but just turns off the volume and Orlando doesn’t protest, he knows the episode anyway. To him, watching the crappy shuttle fly through space in utter silence is probably perfectly fitting anyhow. He just flails with silent enthusiasm but can’t help himself and yells ‘inevitable betrayal’ at the TV screen and laughs happily right after. Sean tells his mother that Orlando is being a geek again.

Orlando looks at him funnily for a second, but half of his attention is still focused on the TV screen and he’s only listening with one ear. So, Sean thinks he gets away with it, and his mother isn’t really all that surprised anyhow since it’s common knowledge that Orlando is married to the telly.

Sean feels Orlando’s eyes on him when commercials are on and Orlando apparently tries to resist the charm of extra silent vacuum cleaners and detergents by paying closer attention to what Sean’s saying. He scrunches up his face and Sean hides a smile and deliberately lets his accent thicken a little more yet, calls from home always awakening the Sheffield lad in him. 

While he reassures his mom that his father isn’t going to accidentally kill himself with his new overpriced circular saw, Sean watches Orlando pick up one of the ugly postcards they bought from one of the kids in school. He writes something onto its back, then pushes it into Sean’s hand. 

‘Do speak proper English like a normal person!’, orders the card with the crooked star.

Sean gestures Orlando to hand him his biro, holds the phone between shoulder and ear and scribbles his response.

Orlando takes the offered item back with a smile that only grows broader when he reads it.

‘Ah can’t, oopbringin ‘n awhl’, it says.

Orlando mouths, ‘Outch’ and pulls a face. Sean laughs silently as the other man folds the card and stuffs it into his pocket. When grumpy captain reappears on screen Sean gets up and disappears into the kitchen. He needs to discuss Christmas presents anyway. 

“Ask Rita whether she knows any fancy Christmas recipes!”, Orlando hollers after him before he switches on the sound of the telly.

***

Sean feels he might have a cold coming up. He’s turned the heating in the bedroom up until the air smelled of dust, he pulled the window wide open, and still feels like he’s close to getting the sniffles.

Orlando is out with Karl on one of their marathon pub crawls, so Sean is alone in the kitchen when he makes himself a cuppa tea with a self-indulgent amount of honey in it. He swallows some cold medicine preemptively and carries his tea and the extra blanket from the couch up the stairs to the bedroom.

He could read something, he thinks as he dresses for bed, but he ends up sitting with his back propped against the headboard doing nothing. Well, he drinks his tea and idly ponders about who else to invite to that Christmas dinner for which Orlando has already come up with a much too long list. He turns the lights out when he has finished his tea and the medicine is starting to make him feel slightly and pleasantly woozy and much better already. 

He doesn’t sleep. His nose still feels a little stuffy and his brain does, too; too many appointments this week, kids being whiney and him being impatient and too demanding maybe. It takes a bit of time for the murky water to clear again, for all the mud to settle.

So, his eyes open easily enough when he hears Orlando trying to be quiet downstairs as he returns. He waits as Orlando takes a de-tour to the bathroom, says, “Hey,” quietly and switches the nightstand’s lamp on before Orlando stumbles over something in his attempt to find the way to the bed in the darkness.

Orlando is slightly unstable on his feet. He grumbles something and Sean commiserates, “Karl?,” as the other man fumbles with his trousers.

He smells of beer and smoke and kebab and toothpaste as he climbs into bed and instantly scuttles over to Sean’s side.

“They’ll come around. Idiots,” Orlando concludes in a belated response, and Sean knows that this is a lie and yet it isn’t. Orlando is compassionate (way more so than Sean himself is, he thinks sometimes) but he’s not tearing himself up about other people’s fuck ups.

“Wanna?” Orlando rumbles, lips against Sean’s neck, half hard cock pressing against the curve of Sean’s bum.

“Mmm,” Sean replies, more to the slow nuzzling than to the question, and closes his eyes again.

 

***

“You can’t buy that.”

Orlando looks up, wearing the default guilty-sweets-stealing-kid expression on his face. His own personal kingdom of heaven in grocery store terms is illuminated by flickering fluorescent light. 

“Of course I can,” Orlando says and smiles as he walks across the aisle to where Sean has pushed the already half full shopping cart. “You indent to buy all that after all.”

Sean tosses two mega sized cartons of Kellogg’s’ into the cart. “That is food. Quite essential, Christmas dinner and all. I’m not planning on going shopping again the next few days. That’d be insane.” 

“Which also explains the tons of toilet paper,” Orlando adds in an amused voice, pointing at the item in the shopping basket.

“And the Christmas tree,” Sean replies since they apparently play ‘state the obvious’ and the tree is safe and sound in the back of their car already.

Orlando still clutches his price but reaches around the other man to grab a handful of the nut bars that Sean likes so much (and that are on sale), “Well, clearly I need this.”

He stands in the way of the cart and holds up the small DVD box as if he were a presenter from a home shopping channel. “How can I resist? After all, the destiny of a great kingdom lies on the shoulders of this young boy.” He beams, points at the DVD. “His name? Merlin! And it’s only £ 16. I very much need this, believe me.”

Both of Sean’s hands rest on the cart’s handle. He knows he’s looking shifty but he can’t do anything against it.

“I know that,” he murmurs and avoids Orlando’s gaze. He is completely incapable of keeping a secret. Christmas time is 24 days of utter torture for him. 

Abruptly Orlando puts the DVD box onto the nearest shelf where it now stands next to fruit gums. Instead he picks up two large bars of chocolate and throws them into the cart. 

“Kirsten tried to convince me that we should have a chocolate fondue,” he says, changing the subject.

“I don’t think that counts as full dinner to all of the other people we invited,” Sean replies and his grip on the cart’s handle loosens. “Hey, grab one of those with nuts and raisins for me, please.”

***

The small study they share is mostly used by Orlando who stuffed his English books onto the silently protesting shelves and has an endless number of files that hold archived lesson plans.

Sean’s different that way. He hardly writes anything down and Orlando sometimes suspects he has secret affairs with Adam Smith and Philippe Van Parijs for his intimate knowledge of them. But Sean believes his lessons are only of value if dealing with the absolute up to date latest developments, so newspapers and the internet are his sources of choice.

When Orlando comes home from his theatre workshop, Sean sits on the couch, engrossed in the Financial Times he holds in his hands. Over the rest of the sofa as well as the coffee table and a good proportion of the carpet, other newspapers are strewn. The usual ones, both the trusted as well as the most despised. 

“Hey there,” Orlando says, and rubbing his belly he asks, “did you by any chance make dinner?”

“Pot roast is in the oven,” Sean answers without bothering to lower his newspaper.

“Brilliant,” Orlando responds with relief in his voice and only as he’s half way through the living room he enquires, “Is it done yet?”

“Probably needs a few more minutes.” 

When Sean joins him in the kitchen a bit later, Orlando has turned on the radio, pulled a chair right in front of the oven and is just about to ‘test’ the almost-done roast for the third time. 

“It’s good,” he announces around a bite of too hot meat and inhales with his mouth half open to let the food cool off. 

“So, we’ll do that for Christmas, too?” Sean asks, stepping up. “You like it?” 

Of course he likes it. It’s a given fact that his mum’s recipes always save the day; just like it was clear beforehand that Orlando would invite way too many people and that they still need to get their giant Christmas tree from the hallway into their already too small living room. 

Orlando swallows, hunger not having allowed him to chew properly. “Right now, I reckon I’d eat the soles of your shoes if you cooked them.”

“Thanks a lot.”

Orlando stands up and wraps his arms around Sean’s waist, kissing his chin with greasy lips. Sean takes the gesture as it is intended and laughs, cradling Orlando’s face with both of his hands to kiss him properly. 

The radio plays some silly 1990s Kylie song, the roast in the oven smells delicious and it surely must be done now. Silly, how Sean notices these things even while he is kissing Orlando, tongues curling around the tiny noises they make. But it’s not like his blood is rushing in his ears or his senses have zoned in on smelling and feeling just Orlando and nothing but him.

Which makes it better. He starts swaying slightly to the song’s rhythm and can feel Orlando smile into the kiss as he lets himself be moved. Orlando catches Sean’s lower lip, teeth gracing over it gently before his tongue soothes the claim of ownership – hungry he is indeed, an always present feeling that can still surprise him with its sudden urgency, easily tolerable solely because it can always be sated.

“So,” Orlando says after they break apart and the oven’s timer beeps quietly, “I saw that the Bank of England forecasts growth uplifts. Again.”

Sean growls and it takes him far longer to voice his opinion on the subject than it takes Orlando to inhale half a cow.

***

They are stuck in traffic, merely crawling down the street. Darkness encloses them, the shimmer of the other cars’ taillights distorted, broken by the raindrops on the windshield.

They haven’t talked much since they pulled out of the school’s parking lot. Everything is said and Sean doesn’t tap the steering wheel with his hands, Orlando doesn’t fiddle with the for once silent radio. Thoughts crawl through Sean’s head, dragging their feet tiredly. He knows this numbness won’t last forever, especially not now that he’s aware of it.

Another couple of metres and when they have to halt again, Sean takes out the gear but steps onto the gas, letting the engine howl uselessly a couple of times. Orlando, who has his feet propped against the dashboard, looks at him but doesn’t say anything.

Trapped in the car, trapped in the darkness. He knows that he’s done all he could for today. That he might actually have talked some sense into the latently aggressive father of his constantly nervous 8th grader. 

The father’s complete lack of compassion echoes in his mind anyway, he still sees the boy's wide eyes reflected in the windshield and the way his too big hands fiddled anxiously in his lap.

Logically he knows that he needs a break – the last couple of days before the holidays are always the worst and numbness is the mind’s last resort. It’s a small consolation, too small, Sean thinks sometimes.

The car in front is moving again and Sean reaches for the gear shift, his fingers curled loosely around its handle even as he’s already driving again. The road has cleared a little, their motion slow but steady now. Orlando’s hand covers his on the gear shift. When Sean glances at him, Orlando is staring out of the window, lack of focus in his eyes, attention directed inwards. His thumb idly strokes over Sean’s pinkie, skin dry from chalk.

Sean concentrates on the traffic as much as he needs to, otherwise lets his mind go numb once more, lets his thoughts become wordless as they fall into the void. 

 

***

The hot water pipe has been making an awful wheezing sound for the past month now. Sean steps under the spray, closes his eyes and pretends that he is still asleep and doesn’t have to worry about needing to call their landlord about it. He brushes his teeth in the shower, saves some time, and wastes it again by shaving slowly with still sleep-clumsy hands, thinking about the last minute shopping he needs to do in the afternoon right after school’s out. His mind repeatedly gets stuck at raisins and white wine for Viggo.

He is drying his hair with a towel as he walks back into the darkness of the bedroom. If there’s something he dislikes about winter then it’s getting up when it’s still pitch black. Orlando refuses to believe the alarm clock, insists in his mumbling state of almost coma that it can’t be time to get up already and just stays in bed. 

Sean usually tells him in the car that he smells like feet because he skipped the shower, and Orlando nods, still half asleep and not all that quick at repartee. 

Last day of school today, then (finally) holidays.

Sean’s eyes have gotten used to the dim light in the room now and he sees the shimmer of pale naked skin. Orlando has dragged the blanket up to his nose but it is warm enough so he hasn’t even noticed that half his face and part of his shoulder are all the askew linen covers. He twitches when the back of his thigh is touched but settles again as Sean draws his hand up, palm cupping one exposed buttock.

“Breakfast,” Sean promises and lightly squeezes the flesh under his palm.

“Ngh,” Orlando grumbles and turns his head away from the light source, the single bulb in the adjoining bathroom.

Sean sits down on Orlando’s side of the bed, uses the corner of his towel to dry the inside of his ear shell and can’t keep himself from touching Orlando’s warm skin.

They’re gonna be running late. Sean hates being stuck in traffic when in a rush.

Orlando grumbles something unintelligible, turns onto his side. He curls around Sean, his long limbs folding so he can. He has his knees drawn up, touching Sean’s right thigh, his head bent and pressing against Sean’s left.

Sean puts the towel down and brushes his fingers through Orlando’s hair, exposing one pointy ear.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs.

“Nghh,” Orlando answers.

“Last day today,” Sean coaxes and runs his hand over the curve of Orlando’s shoulder. “And then ‘I’m dreaming of a white Christmas…’”

Sean is a horrible singer, even in his lowest of voices. Orlando’s face is still hidden against Sean’s thigh but Sean feels his shoulders trembling in silent laughter.

Met him? He lit my arm on fire!

So, Sean sometimes channels Howling Mad Murdoch. Yeah, yeah, Orlando knows that it’s not the obvious choice in terms of ‘Which A-Team-character are you’. When the subject arose (like it does) during dinner with some friends recently everyone agreed that Sean would have to be Hannibal and Orlando, duh, was Face. But while Orlando appreciates the sentiment it’s of course bollocks.

Okay, Sean has never outright admitted his intense fondness for bewildering or one-upmanship, in fact if you look at him he seems to be just your average Sheffield bloke, maybe a bit on the boring side even. But of course Orlando knows better. Being a dedicated part-time Murdoch is Sean’s favourite pastime ever. Well, at least it’s in the top five list, right there with sex in the kitchen, football, being cross with the prime minister and telling Orlando he loves him last thing in the evening. Orlando knows it for a fact because he usually happens to be B.A. during Sean’s Murdoch moments, pissing himself while nearly falling out of a helicopter. Metaphorically speaking.

Orlando is the one that gets attacked by the overly friendly and overly oversized wolfhound that Sean agreed to babysit for the afternoon. As he is lying on the floor and fighting off the dog and its huge wet tongue, he glares up at Sean. And he knows that this is exactly the reason why Sean agreed on taking the dog in the first place. Because Sean cries tears of laughter and needs to lean against the wall for support before he manages to fish out his mobile and starts taking a video of Orlando being almost frenched by a giant wolf.

Orlando is also the one who regularly gets left in the car like some dog because Sean parked so inconveniently that the passenger’s door won’t open. Well, maybe that’s more due to Sean’s utter inability to park a car, which is still a really lame excuse for being late for school. Sean also scared the living hell out of him last New Year’s Day when he decided that nine o’clock in the morning was a perfectly good time to light his last fireworks from the bedroom window. Last week, he and Orlando got into a fight – a serious fight for fuck’s sake – because Orlando told him that a strip club was a seriously stupid idea for Sean’s field trip with his Citizenship class. And regular like clockwork, Sean chooses the crappiest 80s tv-shows, decides he’s now a huge fan of them and makes Orlando watch them with him. As a result Orlando (who worships Joss Whedon and Steven Moffat and David Simon and actually has something like taste) has to suffer through hours and hours of ‘Alf’. He develops a brain tumour while Sean laughs himself silly thanks to the pained sounds he makes on the sofa.

But really seriously now (A-Team comparisons and semi permanent damages caused by Alf aside), Sean is not a complete weirdo, a madman, a compulsive prankster or anything. In fact, he is quite normal and maybe Orlando could even call his contented averageness a little bit boring if he wasn’t so in love with it. And he is, truly and completely.

He knows it when he comes into the living room to ask Sean to turn the volume of the telly down so he can grade his essays in peace and Sean sits on the sofa, his favourite pair of socks and a sewing needle in his hand. The political debate on minimum wage jobs on TV is completely forgotten because Sean’s too concentrated on mending the holes in the two pound socks he’s owned for five years now.

He knows he loves Sean when Sean comes home from the pub and is sloshed enough to miss Orlando’s mouth when he kisses him good night; Orlando just rolls with it and smiles at the tenderness with which his nose is kissed and the half drunk, half embarrassed giggle coming from Sean. He knows he loves him when in the morning Orlando stumbles into the bathroom way too late (as per usual) to find – because it’s what you do every three months – two new toothbrushes next to the sink. There’s a post-it note sticking to the mirror saying ‘the green one is yours, darling’ because Sean knows how Orlando is utterly incapable of choosing a toothbrush colour, especially before coffee.

Orlando loves Sean’s slight anal retentiveness when it comes to hygiene, he loves Sean’s attentiveness to everything he’s taken a fancy to, from the plants on their kitchen window sill to their kids. Orlando adores how they, especially the boys, trust Sean, how he seems to be the go-to-confidante for whole generations of spotty fifteen year olds.

Orlando loves Sean’s little happy sigh when Orlando finally puts his book down and asks if Sean is already asleep or if he’s up for some matrimonial bedroom duties. And he loves how Sean sometimes just scoffs and tells him ‘Not anymore, I’m not, it’s past midnight, you daft sod’ before he switches the light off and is snoring less than two minutes later.

Sean likes his tea white, is a stickler for punctuality and fiercely loyal to his football club. He has his books neatly sorted in alphabetical order while his desk looks like a warzone. Like Orlando he votes Labour on principle and can’t talk about David Cameron without raising his voice. He does crosswords in almost every lunch break and somehow always ropes Orlando into ‘assisting’ him. He adores David Bowie and is incredibly unamused whenever Orlando mangles ‘Angel’ just to wind him up. He really gets off on giving Orlando head but doesn’t much care for the taste of come; he keeps loose change in the pockets of every of his trousers, thinks striped ties make the perfect birthday gift and cheats at board games.

Orlando could appear on ‘Mastermind’ with ‘Sean’ as his specialist subject and make a mint because he knows all this and a billion and fifteen more of these little things on top. Still, and maybe it’s the curse of every Lit major, he is complete crap when it comes to phrasing what he feels about all this, what he feels for Sean. The thing is, when you’ve read Byron and Keats and Blake you can’t help but feel clumsy in comparison. Especially when all it takes is one look at Sean to make Orlando forget the entity of the English language altogether sometimes. He stutters and stumbles over his own words and has said ‘I say, look here; rather’ like a flustered Bertie Wooster way more often than ‘God, I love you with all my heart’ which is what he really means to say.

It was like that from the very beginning – Orlando was silently alternating between mentally wanking off to the sound of Sean’s voice and wanting to compose odes on the beauty of his eyes while it was up to Sean to do the actual work or, as it were, most of the talking.

They met at a mutual friend’s birthday party. Orlando was just fresh out of uni and rather excited about what else life had to offer, knew for sure he wanted to be a teacher but all the rest was rather vague. When he arrived at the party (fashionably late as per usual) Sean was right in the middle of entertaining the entire room with his passionate views on – Orlando isn’t really sure what it was, to be honest. When he tells the story today, it’s ‘Harry Potter and the philosopher’s stone’ but Sean insists it was the liberal philosophy of Karl Popper.

Anyway, the entire party burst out in delighted laughter when Sean finished with a flourish. Sean laughed with them and then he flashed a grin in Orlando’s direction. Orlando doesn’t think he even so much as looked at (let alone spoke to) anyone else but Sean for the rest of the evening.

It was maybe six or seven hours after that when they found themselves alone together on the balcony, the only two smokers left. Despite the cold and clear night air Orlando’s head buzzed from the beer he had but even more so from all the laughs they shared, from the truly ridiculous amount of times when he thought ‘my God, that’s it exactly’ in response to something Sean said.

Their conversation was all over the place, from work and literature to movies and the UEFA cup, to fucking Torys, Doctor Who and even, for some reason, one-upmanship regarding who had the more peculiar aunt. Sean was intensely opinionated but he could listen, too, made Orlando feel like there was no one in the entire flat, hell on the entire planet aside from them. His laughter was infectious and he was constantly touching his mouth, something Orlando really wanted to do for him.

Because somewhere in these seven hours Orlando fell in love with this man he only just met. It occurred to him (like complicated things sometimes do in the middle of the night) suddenly and with full clarity. ‘Now how about that’ he thought to himself, laughed at the joke Sean just finished telling – and then was at a total loss of words. Sean stubbed out his fag and looked thoughtful and for the first time in seven hours they were both silent. Orlando was swamped by all the things he wanted to say and didn’t know how to. Confused, reticent, truly and utterly verbally constipated.

Err, he said, bit his lower lip, scratched his neck. Shit. He looked at Sean and willed him to understand.

Listen, would you like to go out with me some time? Sean said calmly and without any hesitation at all. Preferably straight up tomorrow night? But I’m free for the rest of the week as well.

The rest of the week? Orlando parroted dumbly. Because Sean understood him. How did that happen?

For the rest of my life, really. Sean smiled, so very very charming in its uncomplicated sincerity.

Orlando knew for certain then that he’d never met someone like Sean and that he never would again. Someone who could lay out his entire future for him with just the smallest of playful smiles, someone who could catch him off guard, simply catch him well and truly with his easy admission of love at first sight.

So, Orlando grinned, nodded, asked, Tomorrow, would that be today-tomorrow? Because it’s four in the morning, technically it is tomorrow already. So, tonight then?

Sean laughed and said God, yes, please, with such heartfelt intensity that it completely justified all of the madness going on inside Orlando’s heart. Sean smiled back at him, that full on broad toothy grin of his that even after all these years still makes him drymouthed and weak in the knees.

And really, that was that. Dating, moving in together, stumbling over a school with vacancies for both of them, moving house two times – all these really were mere technicalities after that night. Orlando might be puzzled by Sean’s spur of the moment whims sometimes – say, when one afternoon Sean off-handedly mentions that by the way, he got the name of his footie club tattooed on his upper arm now and Orlando is certain that there’s been no mentioning of the idea before whatsoever. And every week Sean manages to catch him off guard at least thrice with his spontaneous declarations of love, preferably shouted through the entire flat when Orlando is on the loo or something. But the so called big things? They are coming together smoother than Hannibal Smith’s best laid plans, with way less hitches even and completely without the machine guns and the flying tanks.

He wakes up on a sunny Sunday morning, late as per usual. He smells the faint aroma of Yorkshire Tea, feels a slight breeze from the open window against his naked shoulder. He hears the quiet rustling of paper next to him and he doesn’t need to open his eyes. He knows for a fact that Sean’s blue bathrobe is carelessly thrown over the bedspread. After tiptoeing downstairs for his paper and a cuppa Sean opened the window and slid back under the covers in just his boxers. Orlando knows because it’s always like this.

He contemplates whether to open his eyes, then he opts against it. But he slides his right hand under Sean’s blanket and finds Sean’s thigh, his thumb stroking naked skin it as he rests his palm on it.

“Morning, darling,” Sean murmurs in response and Orlando knows he isn’t even looking up from his crossword. Sleep and the vivid memories of assorted dreams are still heavy in his mind and simple things like Sean’s biro scratching over the paper bring him to one of these moments of clarity: It’s lovely, all of this. So lovely that it vexes Orlando a little bit that he can’t seem to put it into words. So, he opens his eyes after all, shifts onto his back with a great heaving sigh and instead of ‘good morning’ he says,

“I’m rather glad that modern poetry mostly ditched the rhymes.”

Sean looks up from the crossword. He taps the newspaper a couple of times with the biro in his hand while he regards Orlando.

“Huh?”

“Just imagine the trouble I’d have trying to come up with those on top of everything.”

Sean slightly shakes his head. “If I didn’t know better I’d say you’d have taken up talking in your sleep.”

“What makes you so sure I’m not?” Orlando asks.

“Your eyes are open for one.”

“Keen observer, you are.”

“That’s what I always say.”

“Must be these specs of yours. Make you look both sophisticated and sexy.”

“Only reason I wear them.”

Orlando’s lips twitch in a smile and he crosses his arms behind his head and glances at the alarm clock. It’s way too early, really. He wrinkles his nose and turns his attention back to Sean. When Sean’s reading glasses slide down a little on his nose, giving him an even more inquisitive look, Orlando thinks that it really is darn sexy.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says, “I don’t think there’s a single thing I don’t love about you.”

Sean’s eyes turn softer, and Orlando has no idea how he does it and how he can look even more beautiful than before but there you go. Sean makes a little humming sound, the nonverbal equivalent to ‘Oh, I see, okay’, then he turns his eyes back to his crossword. He fills in another word or two while he mulls it over. Orlando’s mind has already gone back to drifting when Sean says,

“Is that true? Not a single thing? Not even that I make compromising videos of you and put them on youtube?”

“And send links to all our friends.”

“Why upload them up otherwise?”

“True,” Orlando agrees easily. “And yes, I love that, too.”

That humming sound is repeated and Sean’s tongue flicks out as he licks his lower lip. He twirls the biro between his fingers and fills in another word. Sean’s hands, Orlando adds to his ‘Mastermind’-list of things he loves about him. Most beautiful hands in the world.

“I can’t seem to let you beat me at chess. Or at monopoly,” Sean says.

“I noticed,” Orlando answers. “You tend to knock over the board.”

“How about that?” Sean wants to know while he writes. “You love that, too?”

Orlando snorts at the roundabout way of phrasing that, then he shrugs. “You’re a cheat and it’s rather endearing.”

Sean hums again, pushes his glasses up his nose one more, thoughtfully chews on the back end of his biro; all without looking up. Then he asks, “You’re setting the bar rather high, you know that?”

“I wasn’t aware this was a competition,” Orlando chuckles.

Sean winks at him. “Isn’t it always?”

“Fair enough. I win then.”

“Ah, wait a minute. How about... I snogged Viggo at the staff party last weekend?”

“You what?”

Orlando has pushed himself up to his elbows and actually feels how his eyes have grown bigger before two things occur to him: One, there hasn’t been a staff party last weekend, and two, Sean is doing an incredibly poor job at biting back a grin.

He shakes his head and rolls his eyes. Sean starts snickering, his bare shoulders trembling. Orlando flops back onto the mattress again and growls.

“You’re an arse sometimes, you know that?” he says.

Sean snickers and nods and snickers some more.

“I mean,” Orlando continues and shakes his head again for good measures, “I say I love you and you respond with made-up infidelity? What kind of person does that?”

“I’m sorry,” Sean replies, not sounding the least bit like it. He finally lowers his newspaper and looks down at Orlando with an earnest expression. “I shouldn’t have made stuff up. I should’ve admitted straight away that it was Karl, not Viggo. Quite a good kisser he is, too. Not as good as you, mind you, he can’t do that thing with his tongue for one.”

“Shut up, fool,” Orlando replies without heat and only after a second and a raised eyebrow from Sean he realises how his voice bore exactly B.A.’s infliction just then.

“Did you just –?” Sean starts with a smile but Orlando interrupts him.

“You don’t get to judge me, you’re a compulsive liar and that’s far worse.”

Sean arches both his eyebrows. Then he smiles to himself and puts the newspaper onto the nightstand. Turning back to Orlando, he slides down a little so he can lie on his side and rumbles, “But you love that, too. Don’t you, Bosco?”

Orlando chuckles, looks up at Sean who’s leaning over him and hooks his index finger in the small silver chain around his neck. “That you even have to ask shows that you’re intensely dense.”

With a grin Sean replies, “For such terrible insolence it really is just common sense that you should offer some recompense.”

Orlando hears the rhymes, notes the suggestion and instantly agrees with it, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. “Show off,” he chuckles.

They grin at each other in silence, Orlando thinks he can count the wrinkles around Sean’s eyes and his fingers are still toying with the thin chain. He can’t really say how but gradually something changes in the way Sean’s looking at him. His smile turns quieter, more private, promising, and Orlando swears he could look into his eyes for the rest of all eternity.

More to himself than to Sean he muses, “No matter how hard you try, I’m still thinking kitschy things about you. It’s really quite tragic if you think about it.” Then he looks up at Sean again, really looks at him and laughs quietly.

Sean doesn’t say a thing, not for a long while. Instead he leans down to kiss Orlando and somehow, easily, like it is with them, Orlando stops worrying about his words. Instead he starts wanting less complicated things than eloquence, say, Sean’s hands on his body. They kiss and they chuckle and neither of them needs to elaborate, they kiss some more and don’t need words, not after all these years of doing this together, lazily and slowly, cherishingly and fitting for a Sunday morning. There’s heat building and breathless laughter in between kisses and intakes of suddenly much needed air.

It’s easy and it’s comfortable, like playing a musical piece they know by heart, perfectly choreographed by years of practice and just as genuinely intense as the very first time, if not more so. It shows in the little things, naturally. Sean responds with a pleased hum to Orlando’s quiet sighs when Sean preps him. Orlando wraps his fingers around Sean just the way he knows he likes it best, the edges of the silver band on his ringfinger offering that little additional twist. Sean’s open hand presses against the inside of Orlando’s thigh, and it’s just the right amount of pressure that always makes Orlando’s breathing hitch. Sean tightens his grip just as Orlando deepens his kiss when Sean pushes into him, finally and in that speed that is just the littlest bit too fast and Orlando feels his heartbeat stutter for a glorious moment before he, before it adjusts again.

Sean starts moving slowly then, much slower than Orlando wants him to and in just the perfect pace. Orlando kisses him, kisses his lips and his jaw and Sean turns his face into Orlando’s palm, exposes his neck. Orlando knows how much he loves the light sharpness of teeth against it, obliges, gasps quietly when in turn Sean grips his hip harder, pushes deeper.

Orlando blinks his eyes open and Sean breathes heavily, lips slightly parted and his eyes are focussed intently on Orlando. Orlando doesn’t know what – , he really just doesn’t – and wordlessly he shakes his head, graciously admitting defeat, finally.

“Darling,” Sean whispers.

There is so much tenderness in his voice that it sounds uneven and a little broken, too. Just that one single word and everything is contained in it, everything he feels, everything Orlando feels, everything they have shared, will share. Only Sean can manage that, he has this ability to transform words into spells – Orlando, on the other hand, still apparently can’t overcome the kitsch.

He has to laugh quietly when he realises that and instantly Sean responds, like he always seems to do, like smiling back at Orlando is somehow hardwired into his system. Sean’s laughter is breathless and he rests his lower arms on the pillow, framing Orlando’s head, as he tries to catch his breath and be as close as possible. Orlando feels lightheaded, too, and needs more air but he needs kissing Sean even more. He leans up with his hand on Sean’s neck and it takes them a moment, grinning and panting is already hard enough to coordinate, and Sean repeats this favourite endearment of his. It sounds lighter and breathlessly happy this time and Orlando kisses him because there couldn’t be any other, any more eloquent response.

They kiss and laugh and then easily the mood shifts back to serious single minded need. There’s no thought left in his brain but ‘Sean’ and ‘Oh God, can’t – need –‘ and Orlando presses his hand against the small of Sean’s back to keep him right there, the fingers of his other dig into Sean’s shoulder to the point of pain. Sean hisses in response, thrusts harder, and Orlando can’t hold back anymore and comes.

It feels like a thunderstorm raging through him, feels like being torn apart and being reassembled at the same time, Orlando forgets to breathe, stares wide eyed at Sean. He’s still shuddering when he sees the smirk on Sean’s lips and knows exactly what Sean is thinking, the same thing he’s said to him with amusement time and time again – Couldn’t wait like a polite person, could you? Orlando draws a trembling breath and shrugs in response – Your doing, so don’t complain – and with that finds his bearings again, at least enough to give Sean what Sean once called the darn smouldering look of lust.

All jesting aside, it affects Sean like a charm, or maybe it’s Orlando’s forceful kiss right after, or his legs tightening their embrace, his whispered Come on then against Sean’s mouth. Sean comes and quiet cuss words spill from his lips like an exorcism as he does. Orlando holds him through it and is silently amazed how Sean always does this, how he never seems to be able to differentiate between climaxing and cursing, and how yet all his words sound charming to Orlando.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Sean finishes his litany and sloppily kisses Orlando’s neck, falling still. “Fuck.”

“Amen to that,” Orlando agrees. He shoves Sean’s shoulder lightly in order to remind him to not squash him with his dead weight. Obligingly Sean flops down next to him instead, his chest still heaving with deep breaths and the sunlight makes his skin look shimmeringly golden.

“I’m getting too old for this,” Sean says with a dramatic sigh. He bumps his chest with his hand as if trying to get his ticker to work properly again.

“Yeah, right.” Orlando snorts good-naturedly and brushes sweat from his face with his clean hand. “Stop being so good at it and I might even believe you.”

Sean chuckles warmly. As Orlando turns his back to him temporarily to reach for a tissue he lightly pats Orlando’s bum and kisses the curve of his shoulder. “I’m taking the friendly derision as the compliment it is intended to be.”

“That’s very smart of you,” Orlando says and can’t help but feel this stupidly uncontrollable tenderness rising inside of him at the sound of this pleased smugness in Sean’s voice.

“Yet another thing you love about me, no doubt.”

“It’s even high up in the top five.”

Sean kisses his shoulder again and gently runs his hand over the spot afterwards. “Is that so? What else is there?”

“I’m not gonna tell you,” Orlando laughs. “Revealing all your secrets willy-nilly to your significant other makes a relationship terribly dull, doesn’t it?”

Sean is still smiling but shakes his head nevertheless. “I’m rather fond of knowing everything about you.”

“Because you’d make a bundle if you ever had the chance to appear on ‘Mastermind’?” Orlando wants to know, tossing away the tissue.

Sean laughs and sits up spontaneously. He has already swung his feet out of bed when he agrees dryly, “Exactly because of that. No other reason I could think of.”

He stretches his shoulders before closing the short distance to the small table near the window where a half filled water bottle waits for him.

“Comforting. I was beginning to think that you’d developed this sort of omniscience just to be able to pull my leg all the time,” Orlando says as he gets up as well.

“As if I needed omniscience for that,” Sean replies, then he scratches his chest and drinks thirstily with huge gulps. Orlando watches his Adam’s apple bob, catches himself wanting to lick down the long line of his exposed neck where faint marks of his teeth are the only thing disturbing the perfectness of his skin. He puts his boxers back on then burps quietly from the fizz. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand as he walks back to the bed, picking up his newspaper and his glasses on the way. He arches an eyebrow at Orlando.

“Were you planning on going somewhere?” he asks as he slides back into bed.

Orlando rolls his eyes. “I only got up because I thought – see, you’re not even trying and I’m left standing around naked like someone parked and forgot me here.”

“Come off it. You’d have got up long before if we hadn’t –“

Sean waggles his eyebrows, looking altogether very pleased with himself as he slides his reading glasses back onto his nose and makes a bit of a production out of unfolding his newspaper again.

Orlando decides that now that he’s gotten up he might as well get dressed. As he searches his drawer for a clean pair of boxers he says, “You mean before you made me want to have sex with you instead of having breakfast and composing odes about the colour of your eyes?”

Sean laughs warmly. “You were? You should’ve said something, I’d have waited until you were finished.”

“Because you’re such a great fan of poetry? Or are you just a sucker for the dumbfuckery I call love declarations?”

The thing that Orlando maybe loves most about Sean? He makes Orlando feel completely at ease, always makes him honestly believe that the slightly awkward affirmations of devotion are the loveliest things he has ever heard. Sean himself never stumbles, never stutters, never ever has to hesitate when it comes to telling Orlando how he feels.

“Both, actually,” Sean says with soft earnestness and a smile that couldn’t be more genuine. Orlando in turn nearly loses his balance and falls onto his face as he tries to turn and pull his underwear on at the same time.

“I love you,” he says, steadying himself.

“And I you,” Sean replies simply. His eyes focussed on his newspaper he adds, “Do you wanna do this museum thing this afternoon? The American photography we were talking about the other day? I read a review about it earlier and it sounded good.”

“Sure,” Orlando agrees and picks up his favourite worn jeans from the floor. “But don’t you have football?”

“Nah, it’s been cancelled. The field’s buggered since last weekend’s matches.”

“Too bad. I gotta be at school at half eight for theatre practice though.”

“Afternoon then and an early dinner in the pub?” Sean suggests and lifts the blanket, obviously searching for something.

“It’s a date.”

“Reassuring to know I can still get one,” Sean says, resurfacing with his missing biro.

Orlando steps close to the bed again he replies easily, “I’d have agreed even if you’d have suggested that Indian Place on Gordon Street that always gives you indigestion.”

Sean grins but then narrows his brows a moment later when Orlando crosses his arms in front of his chest and looks down at him expectantly.

“What?”

“I’m gonna have breakfast on my own, you know, if you’re not hungry. But I have a suspicion that there will be no bacon left once you decide to come down.”

“You ate all the bacon yesterday morning.”

“I could do pancakes.”

Sean snorts good-naturedly because last time Orlando nearly set the kitchen on fire. But without another word he gets up, shrugs on his bathrobe and picks up his newspaper. He’s already reading his crossword again as he follows Orlando down the stairs.

“Norse goddess of matrimonial love. Five letters. – Who knows something like that?”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Sean confirms and looks solemn enough. Which isn’t all that helpful because, as it is well established, Sean has god a pokerface that would put Henry Gondorff to shame. “First letter is an F.”

“Frigg, then,” Orlando supplies as he switches on the light in the kitchen.

“Frigg? You mean as in ‘fuck you’?”

Orlando is already busy with the fridge, searching for the ingredients of the pancakes he’s suddenly starving for.

“Yep. She is the wife of Odin and Friday is named after her. Frigging scout’s honour.”

With the milk carton in one hand and the eggs in the other Orlando looks back at Sean. He has sat down on his side of the table and is clearly contemplating whether he trusts Orlando enough to fill in the missing four letters.

“You know sometimes I really can’t tell when you’re having me on,” he finally says.

“Good thing it’s a mutual feeling,” Orlando replies with a smile. He piles the pancake ingredients on the counter and puts the kettle on. “It’s all working out perfectly.”

“Yeah,” Sean agrees as he writes, neat letters fitting perfectly into the small spaces. “Lovely when a plan comes together.”

Orlando laughs out loud and even though Sean isn’t looking up there is so obviously a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He turns to search for the largest bowl they own and that for some reason keeps disappearing, then he starts mixing ingredients. Sean quietly hums a Stones song that’s been stuck in his head for days, and somewhere along the line they switch places. Orlando starts reading out the political commentary while Sean sees to it that the pancakes turn out perfectly golden.

This comfortable Sunday morning feeling washes over Orlando once more – the prospect of a hearty breakfast and an enjoyable day ahead and Sean asking him to fetch his slippers, the tiles are cold and someone roped him into slaving behind the stove.

It’s not exactly a plan that came together, Orlando supposes. He doubts that anyone (least of all he himself) could’ve planned his life quite like this. But he is so bloody thankful that it did.

Here I was in my own little world, dreaming about candy bracelets

There are times when Viggo envies Sean. It’s a foreign concept to him usually, envy. More than once Karl has pointed out that it’s because Viggo is just too self-involved, too self-absorbed to even notice that other people exist and could be envied. Karl has a tendency to aim low when he’s pissed at Viggo. Viggo has yet to figure out whether it’s annoying or endearing.

Despite Karl’s words, Viggo finds himself envying his best friend from time to time. Particularly when he is in one of these moods that make him think the world may very well end today, and he wouldn’t even give a damn. It’s worse even when he knows he is being the moodiest person in a building full of puberty ridden teenagers.

Sean has the miraculous ability to walk past the room with the photo copiers when Viggo lets out his frustration by kicking the damn machine (because kicking his pupils or Karl is out of the question, he respects that, and sadly, karma has no butt to kick). Sean pats him on the shoulder and lets Viggo have his mug of coffee while he tends to the photo copier. While the machine resumes its duties, Sean stands next to Viggo, looking down at it, and he says something like ‘bloody thing has been annoying the crap outa me all week, too’. Viggo knows it’s a lie. All machines always work for Sean, and also because it takes so much more to faze Sean. But he appreciates it, even if it makes him feel slightly pathetic.

Other times, Viggo thinks he pities Sean. Maybe it’s just envy in disguise (yet another one of Karl’s fortune-cookie-from-hell wisdoms). Whatever you call it, it tastes like bread past the best-before date.

On Mondays they return from their other lives (or, at least, what Sean calls thus - two days in which you don't tend to bloody noses, don't have chalk on your hands and maybe forget for whole hours that you're a teacher). They find themselves parking next to each other in the school parking lot again. And Sean tells him (while lighting up one last quick fag) what he’s been up to over the weekend – some museum or other, laundry, some game show on the telly, an uneventful football match maybe. Stew for dinner.

And Jesus Christ, Viggo will kill himself, if he ever spends a weekend as boring and afterwards isn’t even too ashamed to talk about it. Weekends are for spontaneous trips, for parties you haven’t been invited to in the strictest sense of the word, for fighting and breaking up (and making up by Sunday afternoon), for painting and reading and thinking about what you’ve read. You shouldn’t be able to summarize your weekend in between yawns and puffs of smoke next to the last ashtray just outside school grounds.

Once or twice, Viggo hasn’t been able to keep this thought inside – no matter how hard Karl tries to train it into him that honesty isn’t the best policy at all times, most of the times it’s just stupid and rude and fuck-you-not-everything-is-about-you-Viggo. Boring, how fucking horribly boring, that’s what he says to Sean (not cruelly, though). Sean always reacts the same way; he squints at Viggo from behind his reading/driving glasses, rest of his face half hidden by the hand holding the cigarette. He regards Viggo silently, and after a second or two Viggo notices the stale taste on his tongue.

Sometimes, not always, that’s when Karl shows up. Sometimes he cuts their conversation short by hugging Viggo from behind and lifting him off his feet. His laughter is as instantly infective as always, even before he very nearly tosses Viggo into the nearest shrubbery. Sometimes Karl interrupts them by walking past them without a greeting or even a glance (loudest disturbances of them all), and Viggo’s attention gets redirected – from his somewhat bland best mate to that infuriating bastard of a man Viggo can’t seem to live with or without.

Usually, Orlando walks past them two minutes later. He smiles while he tosses a remark their way – how wonderfully mild the weather is (as he’s wearing what seems like his entire wardrobe), how much he’s looking forward to yet another week being surrounded by illiterates, how utterly unfair it is that whatsitcalled, the TV-series, got cancelled. If in his classes, Orlando talks about Shakespeare the same way he talks about his free time, Viggo isn’t surprised that kids prefer video games over books.

Except.

Sean always laughs at whatever Orlando says. The corners of Orlando’s mouth curl upwards fractionally, the lines around Sean’s eyes deepen, and Sean replies something like ‘for there never was a story of more woe’. Orlando looks like he wants to flip him off, but then remembers where they are and that he’s a role model. ‘Romeo is such a moron’ he says instead, chuckling.

Sean watches Orlando walking on, with a shake of his head but that smile still on his lips. And Viggo feels like the idiot kid in class, the one that looks around frantically, asks ‘what? What?!’ while everyone else is laughing at a joke that he alone doesn’t get.

Sometimes, yes, Viggo envies Sean. It’s a foreign concept to him. Usually.


End file.
